


who you gonna call

by envysparkler



Series: Pavor [7]
Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Gen, Good Sibling Jason Todd, Hurt/Comfort, Scarecrow's Fear Toxin (DCU), Tim Drake Needs a Hug
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-25
Updated: 2020-11-25
Packaged: 2021-03-09 19:56:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,734
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27711677
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/envysparkler/pseuds/envysparkler
Summary: Every child in Gotham knows to call Robin for help.
Relationships: Tim Drake & Jason Todd
Series: Pavor [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1932523
Comments: 65
Kudos: 922





	who you gonna call

**Author's Note:**

> I love how you all keep handing me your hearts like I'm not going to shatter them every time.

Tim is running.

He is very good at running – he has to be, Gotham is _dangerous_ at night, and even following Batman and Robin can’t keep him safe if he doesn’t know how to lose his pursuers – but the simple fact is that his legs aren’t as long as an adult’s, and he can’t outrun them.

Outthink, outwit, take to the roofs – because criminals never _look up_ – and disappear, sure. Tim’s done that loads of times.

But he can’t see any fire escape – _wrong_ , something thrums faintly in his mind, because Gotham is riddled with fire escapes, even if they’re broken – and his hands are red and bleeding from scrapes as he attempts to scale brick, and he doesn’t know what street he’s on – he knows Gotham like the back of his hand, but tonight everything looks the same, everything’s covered in poisonous fog and Tim has no clue where he is.

They’re gaining on him, he can _hear_ it, feel the footsteps thrumming through asphalt as he tries to run faster and faster.

_Who_ , a distant part of his mind screams, _who’s hunting you_?

Tim doesn’t know. Tim isn’t going to turn around and check. He can almost feel the fingers curling into his jacket to yank him to a stop and they’ll be upon him and this is _Gotham_ and Tim’s been on these streets since he was nine years old, he knows full well what this city does to lost children.

Another corner, another hiss as his knee jars painfully when he bangs it into the wall. He doesn’t know where he is. He doesn’t know how to get back home. He just knows how to run.

Heavy footsteps, booted and loud and quick, but they haven’t caught him yet, maybe he’ll get away, maybe he lost them, maybe –

Shadows bloom out of the darkness, swirling up from the fog, and Tim jerks to a sudden halt, nearly crashing to the ground. Chuckles echo around him as Tim struggles to maintain his balance, sneers twisting on the faces of the people around him.

Tim knows what those looks mean. He’s known since he was nine years old – he knew before that, knew in the same offhand way he knew that birds could fly and fish could swim, but he only _really_ knew once he was out on the streets to see it firsthand.

He stumbles back, and the laughter grows louder. He reaches for the strap of his camera bag, but it isn’t there. He lost it somewhere in his mad scramble between the warehouse and here, wherever _here_ is.

He turns back the way he came, and there are four people blocking off that exit. They’re surrounding him now, getting closer and closer and Tim shivers, because he knows what people like these do to children like him.

But there’s nowhere to run and his paltry self-defense skills aren’t going to save him here – he’s not Batman, and he’s certainly not Robin, and he can’t fight his way out, and he’s _trapped_ and –

An arm locks around him and Tim screams, kicking out – he’ll go down, but at least he’ll go down with a fight – and managing to elbow his assailant as he tries to squirm away. He lashes out in any direction he can, desperate, and the shadows just laugh and laugh as they dodge his pitiful attacks.

“Shh, kid, _kid_ , it’s me, it’s Robin, calm down!”

Tim freezes.

He _recognizes_ that voice, and the arms restraining him are a familiar forest green. “Robin?” he repeats, his voice wavering, and the hold loosens enough for him to turn around.

He looks up into a mask on fire, lenses showing glowing red eyes as a mouth twists to a sickening, too-wide smile, and Tim screams again.

He’s promptly hauled back into the restraining embrace, his face squished against a material that’s definitely more bulletproof than his pictures seemed to suggest, and Robin – Jason Todd – starts his low murmur again. “Shh, kid, it’s okay, you got hit with fear toxin. We have to wait it out, okay?”

Tim trembles, his fingers curling in the material of Robin’s cape, his eyes squeezed shut. This is the closest he’s ever been to Robin, but he can still hear the laughter – the things they’re saying – they tell him that Robin will leave him here, that he’s worthless and useless and dead weight –

“Don’t go,” Tim chokes out, holding tighter like it’ll make any difference against Robin, “Please don’t leave me.”

“I’m not going anywhere, kid,” Robin murmurs soothingly, complete with some awkward pats on his shoulder. “I promise the toxin will wear off, you didn’t get hit with a whole lot.”

Tim remembers stumbling into an alley, remembers green smoke, and he chokes and burrows further into Robin’s grasp.

He shouldn’t be here. He knows this. Robin has better things to do – people to hunt down, and a Batman to watch. He shouldn’t be here with a stupid kid who forgot his rebreather and – and –

“It’s okay, kid,” Robin murmurs, and his arms are warm and tight around Tim, “I got you, you’re okay.”

Tim doesn’t realize that there are tears streaming down his face until he tastes the salt on his lips.

The shadows whisper terrible things – about his parents, about Batman, about _him_. And Tim clutches Robin tightly and takes one shaky breath after another.

Robin is here. And that’s all that matters.

* * *

Tim _runs_.

That’s all he knows, all he’s capable of doing – his muscles are spasming and his fingers curl weakly, and he’ll never be able to get up to the roof like this.

He runs. His chest is heaving – he’s trained, he’s fast, he’s smart, and yet he’s slipping on the ground and scraping against brick and he can hear them gaining on him. Not fast enough. Not smart enough. Never was.

His bo staff is gone, he doesn’t know where, he can’t hear through his comm, can’t hear anything aside from the snarled curses of the people chasing him. His cape is ripped and there are bruises around his face, he can feel them twist as he bites back a sob.

He runs and runs and runs and he’s not eleven years old anymore, he’s seen more horrors on these streets than he can count and ordinarily he can choke that fear down, but now his heart is thrumming too fast and there’s a scream building at the back of his throat and panic is tightening cuffs around his wrists.

Hands loom out of the darkness on either side and he forces a burst of speed, forces trembling muscles to run faster – he’s _trained_ , he can do this – forces skittering limbs to pump as he moves.

He can feel fingers ghosting along his shoulders, snagging in his cape, and his muscles are flagging, his fists are loose, his legs are shaking, but he needs to keep running, he knows this, even as his breath catches and his inhales sound like choked sobs.

He needs to run. He isn’t safe. They’re going to catch him.

He’s _scared_. He’s terrified and lost and alone and panic is choking him and Tim has years worth of training but there is one thing he knows – one thing he learned on the streets long before he was taught how to throw a punch, one thing every child of Gotham knows like they know the sun will rise in the east and set in the west.

“Robin,” Tim says-shouts, half a sob and half a whimper, “ _Help_.”

Something about it is wrong, something about the shape of the name feels strange on his tongue, but they’re gaining on him and he can’t stop running and he’s so _scared_.

Boots land in front of him, thunderous echoes ringing in his ears and Tim swerves on instinct, catching the shine of metallic red and the bulges of concealed holsters and a grinning devil-face as the shadows seethe around him, reaching out with long-fingered hands and eerie laughter.

He hits the wall and uses his momentum to keep moving – he has to stay upright, he has to keep running, he _has_ to – and crashes straight into something unyielding.

Tim scream-sobs and tries to stagger back – he needs to run, he needs to – but bands of steel wrap around him, trapping his arms to his side and forcing him flat against what feels like armor and the shadows are _laughing_ and Tim _tries_ to break free, he really does, but –

His knees buckle under him as he crumples, falling an inch before the bands adjust and keep him upright. Terror is searing through him, thick and choking and overwhelming, but his muscles have given up, he can feel the searing burn of fatigue set in as the cramps start.

He can’t stop the low whine that escapes between too-fast breaths, or the strangled scream as the grip constricts too-tight for a split-second. “Robin,” Tim says, because _Robin_ means _safe_ means _help_ means _protector_ –

_Robin’s dead,_ something pings in the back of his head. _You’re Robin_ , a shadow hisses. _No one’s saving you_ , curls in his heart.

“Jason,” Tim chokes out, because _Robin_ is _Jason_ , and has been for years, because Dick may be the original but Tim grew up with Jason, grew up with a boy with quick punches and a crooked grin and _Robin_ and _Jason_ are intertwined in his head.

Something flinches next to him, before the constricting grip turns more encompassing, forcing his face into the armor as he’s held upright like a puppet. “Shh, baby bird,” a low voice croons, “It’s okay, you’re safe.”

No, no, he needs to run, he has to run, he –

“You were hit with fear toxin,” the voice soothes, “It’ll be over soon, I promise, just hang in there a little while longer.”

Tim is shaking his head, tears dripping past the unstuck edges of his domino, trembling fingers catching weakly in the grooves of the armor. “Jason,” he says, his breath hitching, “ _Jason_. Jason, please –”

“I’m here,” soft and calming and gentle, “I’m right here, baby bird. I got you.”

“Please,” Tim begs, unsure of what he’s pleading for, but Robin understands.

“I’m not going anywhere, I promise,” firm, as firm as the arms holding him up, holding him tight, “I have you, baby bird.”

Tim exhales, and goes limp.

Robin is here. And that’s all that matters.

**Author's Note:**

> The second scene can have any resurrected Jason you want - freshly-resurrected-alternate-first-meeting, presently-murderous-Red-Hood, tentative-ally-Red-Hood, etc.


End file.
